Rachel had always been a good wife. But at some point, and without my realizing I had done it, I did to her what had been done to me and my brother so long ago. I delegated her to a lower level. She was still there, with me, seemingly an important fixture in my life, as always, but now in a place below me, separate.
Or perhaps it was I who was separate, who had remained separate. Had never left the damp coolness of the lower levels.
She would never leave me; of that I was certain. Her love for me, from the very beginning, was fanatical.
I did not meet Rachel until we were both in our twenties, yet she had never kissed a man, much less the other things. And although her devotion to me was, from the very beginning, that of the born-again convert, I still suspect that had it not been me she found, it would have been another. In the end, her love would have found a blistering focus on any man who could withstand it. It did not have to be me. I could never tell her this, but it is true.
We met at a college graduation party. Her date was drunk and became belligerent when she asked to leave. Already settled into a sober-minded life, I was not drinking and offered her a ride to her dormitory. She accepted. Outside the dorm building, she opened the car door to get out, then hesitated.
“This is silly,” she said. “It’s graduation night. We should be having fun.”
I looked at her, waiting to see what she meant.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I agree,” I said, not knowing what I was agreeing to.
She pulled her leg back into the car and closed the door. She leaned across the seat and kissed me on the cheek. “Let’s go get some beer.”
In her dorm room, we played a drinking game that involved bouncing a quarter off a tabletop and into a glass of beer. We drank the beer and flirted with each other. She told me about her father. How he tried to control her with his money. When she reached to pick up the quarter, I noticed a bubble-gum-colored scar that stretched across her wrist. The scar was raised, textured, and repulsive. She followed my gaze and pulled her arm away.
“That happened a long time ago.” She carefully aimed the quarter. “I used to be a very sad person.” She threw the quarter hard against the tabletop. It bounced off the table, arced spinning through the air, and plopped into the glass of beer. I watched the quarter zigzag lazily through the amber liquid until it came to a rest at the bottom of the glass. Bubbles erupted around the quarter and foamed to the top of the glass. “I used to be a very sad person,” she repeated, and pushed the glass aside. She leaned across the table. “But now I’m a very drunk person.” She kissed me. I hesitated at first. Then I kissed back.
Can I admit it now? Can I acknowledge that on some level, even then, I was attracted to her mental illness? Certainly it was there, like a badge of achievement for all to see. I saw it, stretched and pink-edged across her wrist, and I responded to it. Darkness is drawn to darkness.